Ardebit
by Harlequin of Hericide
Summary: Not going to bother with a description. OC-centered and based on an RP.


**a/n:** Short and rushed (I spent less than an hour and a half on this bs). But whatever. Basically collection of drabbles within a ficlet, expounding on minor thought processes during certain scenes. Pretty much Darrius-centered too. Lyric credit goes to Korn.

For JinxedEons. No one else is going understand what the hell this trash is, I assume, as it's entirely OC-based.

Also, I reference Drystan as the youngest throughout this as I couldn't remember who I had actually assigned as the firstborn between the twins, so...decided to go with that. And I had no idea how to end it.

* * *

 **Lullaby For A Sadist**

 _This isn't a game_  
 _Your life, I'll swallow_  
 _And I can't help_  
 _But smile at your pain_

.

.

.

Freya— _only not_ —shoots him a look that was equal parts mocking and ire, full of both mirth and knowing as she _(he)_ turns the corner with a scornful wave. As if exposing some esoteric weakness and choosing to flaunt it.

He's a touch insulted and that itself brings him to a point of malice where he was previously amused. The only thing that stalls him from making it abundantly clear that this visage has no effect on him is simple.

He knows he's _won_ and this is the boy's attempt at a last blow. A low one at that.

He was never too fond of sore losers.

.

.

It's a purely sadistic rush that absorbs him, but he welcomes it with something akin to what he can only suspect is euphoria. He wouldn't know. He didn't do much 'feeling'. But how could he? Life offered nothing more than insipidness and beings that divulged themselves in far too much palaver.

But what he feels watching him snap is potent; exhilarating even, burning.

And listening to the boy's sister come to his personal defense brings him an even more deranged sort of relish. He _almost_ feels pity for Drystan, what with no one putting much weight to his complaints. It reminds him of a horror movie cliché—a devil in plain sight. His transgressions are only met with inattentive indifference.

But Darrius himself is content listening to the talk of him 'benefiting' the last born Petrova, so he doesn't complain. It's all bullshit however, of course. He has no interest in helping Drystan get control over his powers—at least not completely.

Just enough that he won't go completely mad.

.

.

Darrius often likens Drystan to a phoenix in the moments that he loses control of himself in gratuitous displays of power. Murderous, unstable, and all hellfire.

He gladly watches the latter burn Drystan and all those he's associating with. Dare it be said, he _respects_ it.

But in harmony with the avifauna he compares him too, each sanity severance only preludes a (slight, but significant) renascence.

But respect soon turns obsession and he quickly decides that he wants these demonstrations induced only by his depravity and for them to be beheld by him alone.

It's justified, he thinks. Really, how could it not be? Violence well-nigh flourished between them from their first meeting.

He was confident some divinity, a dæmon, could near prognosticate his entitlement.

.

.

White bones protrude from the witch's body, having been thrown into an unwelcoming wall with jarring ferocity.

Darrius just feels a consuming amount of vindication and almost wishes his magic didn't have such cruel accuracy. He was intent on castigation and drawing out that man's _(swine's)_ death would have proved entertaining, he's sure.

But he is one who is capable of getting instant gratification when he wants it, and isn't fond of delaying that.

"He was trying to kill me," is what draws Darrius from his devastation-centered thoughts, the statement being made by a taken aback Immortal. The obvious and nothing more. Darrius almost rolls his eyes. He finds himself too amused at the lacking gratitude to bother.

"Good thing I don't like sharing."

The implications of that candid remark remove the Petrova from a state of bewilderment and just as quickly throw him into one of offense. Darrius can more or less envision Katerine Petrova in the 'do you know who you're speaking to' that screams at him through means of Drystan's expression.

.

.

"I guess he's somewhat resilient..."

He only offers his company a hum in response, prompting the features of the woman at his side to scrutinize, seeking some veiled explanation to soothe her ever growing bafflement.

"How much longer do you plan on toying with him?" She is becoming more desperate for answers.

He raises an eyebrow. Claire receives a stagnant pause this time before he decides to oblige her. "As long as I please." A considerably nice way of telling her it was none of her damn business, he thought. Having gotten his 'power increase' of sorts, he was in a good mood.

He observes her with placid disinterest, notes the twitches in her otherwise stiff countenance as she digests his dismissal, the forced deportment of indifference being set forth to eclipse internal squirms. He feels tempted to call her out on it, because really now, he deserves a bit more credit than this. He's been gifted centuries to assimilate the intimations of deceit.

Regardless of his pride, he is in no mood to quarrel (make bringing her back utterly futile by pointing out her delusions to her) just yet. Instead, he turns his gaze away, spurning her with appalling ease. He extends the kindest thing he can to her—indifference, as she no longer diverts him from the emptiness within. Indeed, she now only serves as a reminder.

Something with the means to burn him, however, was a different matter altogether.

.

.

.

 _Gloating, I plant the seed_  
 _Inside your head_  
 _Right away, watch it grow_  
 _Destroying your insides_  
 _With my sadistic ways_  
 _I crack a smile_


End file.
